


Addicted

by shameless_rogue



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Cuddling, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Ed is an Amy Winehouse fanboy you know, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Making Love, because it is, have I told you it's angsty, sort of, stuff you feel after killing your best friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shameless_rogue/pseuds/shameless_rogue
Summary: "Ed, you're not sleeping. You're taking drugs. You're having a conversation with your dead friend. Just admit that you're lost without me or you will destroy everything!"Before Ed finds the right pills to induce his hallucinations about Oswald, he has to try a few things. So he does.





	Addicted

**Author's Note:**

> This is what Ed's hallucinations did to me.  
> I regret nothing.
> 
> title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzNosK82NSs) (I mean I know the word exists on its own but I really wanted you to see the Amy Winehouse reference)

The first time it happens is, sadly, also the first time he meets the Oswald of his hallucinations. He even knows the exact time, because he's been staring at his alarm clock for hours, watching the neon blue numbers change and change as time passes by. 

It’s not like he can’t sleep. He could if he really wanted to, he's taken two sedatives so far with a bottle of wine, and now he's feeling dizzy and almost incapable of focusing on keeping himself awake; but he’s scared, too, his lips are trembling and his teeth clenching, his torso is covered in sweat. His shirt is on the floor in a sad little pile, thrown away a few minutes ago when he realized it was literally dripping. 

It might be the result of the pills and the alcohol, and it might be the result of his state of mind, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s not supposed to fall asleep now, he's not supposed to let himself dwell in the vibrant waves of delirium, unless he wants to wake up from another nightmare in another five minutes. So he props himself up on an elbow, feels his arm go weak and falls face first back on the bed, pushes himself up again, and reaches for a teacup on the bedside table. His hand taps around uncontrolledly, pushes a wristwatch aside that falls off the nightstand with a worrying clash, wraps itself around the box of medication he might need again, releases it, finds the cup and lifts it to his mouth. It's a porcelain teacup, one that can easily be broken if he keeps handling it like this, but he can't bring himself to care. 

The liquid in the cup smells warm and acrid, nothing what a proper wine should smell like, and he has to press his lips together when he takes a sip so he doesn't spit it out. It feels hard to swallow, it burns his throat and his soft palate, and the bitter taste that remains on his tongue makes him cough. His shoulders shake with the sudden rush or air, and so does his clumsy left hand; he spills red wine on the bedsheets and his own chest. 

"Damn," he mutters, and places the cup on the floor next to the bed, without even attempting to find the nightstand again. The alcohol is beginning to blind him, he can feel the numbness in his eyes and imagine the way his vision must be blurring, even though he can't see in the dark and without his glasses anyway. The arm that's been holding him is slowly going limp too, and he lets himself fall to the mattress. He doesn't bother to do it nicely. 

He stays there, then, with his arm tucked under his waist in a painfully unnatural position, his head sliding farther off the pillow with every second, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears. Shivers are running up and down his spine, heat is radiating from his wet skin, and he can't bring himself to grab a duvet and pull it over his bare torso. 

Something is dripping. Wine, likely, from the stained sheets, reaching the floor with disgusting little plops. Ed feels a slight urge to throw up when he hears it. He doesn't move, though, only when he realizes it's not the wine he's listening to—the sound is coming closer, his overwhelmed mind can locate it now; it's in the kitchen, in the dining room, in Ed's bedroom, like someone's looking for him, and finally it gets to the door of the master bedroom, touches the doorknob with a plop that sounds slightly different than the others, and then it's inside, at the end of Oswald's bed, and Ed sits up with a voiceless scream stuck in his throat, reaching for the night light and flicking it on. 

He blinks a few times when the dim light meets his eyes, but he can see well enough to know that the room is empty. It's the floor that he checks first, as soon as he has his glasses on, but it looks clean, or at least not any dirtier than it did when Ed turned the lights off half a night earlier. No drops of wine, no water, no blood. 

Ed throws his glasses on the top of his shirt, wearily hoping they land without getting damaged, and lays back. He manages to pull the duvet over himself now, he ducks his head under it, leaving the night light on for no reason. He has to force himself to close his eyes, then he lifts a languid hand to rub them gently, desperately trying to feel relaxed. 

It's not easy, and he's sure it's not going to be easy for an awfully long time. During the day, he's mostly incapable of functioning because of the lack of sleep; at night he can decide between his nightmares and his thoughts, and neither of these seems like a tempting option. And that's the reason he hasn't had any rest for two weeks now—when he stays sober, his mind is bombarding him with confusing concepts about people he once loved and buried, when he gets drunk, his mind shuts off and without its control illogical tears and boners and the most devastating memories appear, and if he manages to fall asleep somehow, his nightmares wake him up. 

He once thought he'd get used to them. Now he's almost certain he'll give up sleeping before he can live them through without waking up to his own muffled cries. 

Most of the nightmares are simple, the same things normal minds would make up. He dreams about being shot by Oswald, he watches his own cold body float around in the river until a whirlpool swallows it whole; he dreams about drowning and about pressing his hands to his stomach to stop the bleeding of his guts; he dreams about the night he killed Kristen and the act seems cruel and animalistic and horrifying when it's her who wraps her fingers around his neck. And every night, he's surprised by the pain he feels, heaving onto his chest even when he's finally awake and panting into the mattress. But today, it was different—and it was his fault, he knows that, but he felt too exhausted to go and get a glass of clean water to take his sleeping pills with. His head was buzzing and way too heavy when he put it down on the pillow, but it seemed satisfying at first because he fell asleep the moment he turned off the lights. Then the nightmare came, and the blurry calmness was gone. 

He killed Oswald again tonight. It shouldn't have mattered—he's done that before, there was a time, only two weeks earlier, when he shot him and pushed him into the river without batting an eyelid, but something must have changed because in this dream Oswald wasn't the only one crying. Ed was too, he fought the urge to pull the trigger, he tried to drop the gun before it was too late. He couldn't. 

The memory of that feeling, that sudden emptiness that came when he felt his finger bend and saw Oswald fall, is enough to make him shiver again. He feels awake now, and more exhausted than ever. 

"Leave me alone," he mutters, not really knowing who he's addressing, and he pulls the duvet off his head to get some fresh air. And that's when he sees him—a dark, bony figure sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Ed sits up straight, pressing his back against the wall and pulling his knees under his chin, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. 

"That's not true," he whispers. His voice sounds shocked and hoarse. 

The figure turns to face him. It looks just like Oswald—not the Oswald Ed shot a few weeks ago, but the handsome young man he met at the GCPD, with the spiky, straightened hair and the sassy smile. He grabs the duvet and puts his legs on the bed, stretching them into the soft warmth of the sheets. 

"Hello, old friend," he says, almost cheerfully. 

Ed lowers his hand slowly, ready to lift it again in case he decides to scream and needs something to muffle it with. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks. Oswald shrugs. 

"I don't know, you wanted me to come. But honestly, I almost feel grateful," he gestures towards the floor where there's a muddy jacket lying right next to Ed's shirt, "I really needed a warm place to dry my clothes. The river's been getting cold lately." 

Ed stares at the jacket. It clearly wasn't there before Oswald pointed at it. 

"I'm hallucinating, right?" he says, almost hopefully. 

"No, I miraculously survived a shot in the stomach _and_ drowning," Oswald snorts and his face transforms, suddenly looking just like the man Ed remembers as the Penguin. But in a moment, the change is gone, and his face seems young and carefree again. "Sorry," he says with a grin that arches up to his eyes, "I'll try to behave. I'm here to help you after all, not to judge you for murdering me in cold blood or anything." 

"To help me?" Ed reaches for his glasses, almost falling off the bed to get them. "Why on Earth would you want to help me?" 

"Don't act like it's my choice," Oswald snaps. Ed manages to put on his glasses at the third try. Oswald is still sitting there when he looks back up, only his features are a bit more clear. "So, is there anything you want, or can I just go home?" 

That one hurt. Ed tangles his fingers together, twists them to let physical pain conceal whatever else he's feeling. 

"Home," he repeats. "I thought your home was here." 

"Oh, that was just a stupid expression," Oswald says, and adds, before Ed could let out a delighted sigh, "I don't actually have a home now. Except that one place in your mind, but let's be serious, that's not what you call a home." 

"In my mind?" 

"Yes." Oswald looks like he has to bite his tongue to stay calm. "But I don't have to explain this to you, do I? You've kept other people in there before." 

Ed sticks two fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. 

"So you're like—a hallucination?" he repeats. "I'm hallucinating that you are here?" 

"In my case, _fantasizing_ would be a better choice of words. But yes, you are." Ed feels his throat tighten and his face heat up, and he can only hope it's not too visible. Oswald grins at him. 

"What?" 

"You know, it's hard to hide anything from someone imagined by you." He shifts closer to Ed and the mattress waves under his weight, making his presence feel unsettlingly real. "Are you sleeping in my bed?" 

"I'm not sleeping anywhere." 

Oswald shots an ice cold glance at him. "You would be if you finally stopped feeling guilty. It's not going to bring me back to life.” 

“That’s—“ Ed hesitates for a second.” That’s probably right.” 

“Of course it is, I'm just saying what you think. So what’s wrong with your own bed?” 

Ed swallows hard. “I can’t sleep over there.” 

“You just said that you can’t sleep in here either.” 

“Yes, but my room makes the nightmares—worse.” 

Oswald chuckles softly. ”Sure," he says, spotting the lie without having to think about it. "When was the last time you changed your bedsheets?” 

“What?” Oswald chuckles again and Ed feels his own face get hot and flushed. So the creations of his mind really know everything he knows. “Alright,” he says, silently admitting how much he’s missed the smell of Oswald, his real smell, not the faint, fading one that's only sensible now if he breathes in the scent of his pillow deeply enough; and the ghost's lips curl into a wide grin, “do you have a problem with me sleeping here?” 

The grin fades and so does the flirtatious light in Oswald’s eyes. Ed finds that he can breathe properly again, and inhales deeply to celebrate the feeling. 

“So?” he asks. “No answer?” 

“I can't give you one as long as you don’t know what you want me to say,” Oswald explains. “I mean, you obviously want to hear that I don’t mind you staying in my bed, and am, in fact, rather excited about it; but the truth is, you can’t imagine me feeling the same enthusiasm for you as I did before you shot me. Or can you?” 

Ed bites his lip and the confused expression is gone, Oswald is smiling at him again, with a warm, welcoming smile. 

“Of course you can,” he says teasingly, but there’s no real edge to his voice. He moves again, shifting closer and closer until he's leaning against the headboard too, head tilted to the side, gaze fixed on Ed. “And yes, you being here is just fine with me.” 

Ed sighs as a strange sensation of delight washes over him, sending shivers down his spine and numbness up into his brain. 

“So,” Oswald goes on, “you're having trouble falling asleep?” 

“Yes.” It comes out raw and hoarse, the way he normally speaks now, and he has to clear his throat to find his old, natural voice. “Yes,” he repeats, less aggressively this time, and Oswald opens his arms like he’s inviting Ed to move closer. 

“Come here,” he says when Ed freezes instead of moving. Ed inches closer carefully, like he’s afraid of scaring the illusion away. “That’s it.” 

Ed gets close enough for Oswald to reach him and pull him into a tight hug. “That’s it,” he repeats. Ed puts an arm around his waist, sliding down under the duvets so he’s lying low enough to bury his face into his chest. 

The shirt Oswald’s wearing is cold and damp, it sticks to their skin and smells like rotten seaweed. Ed grabs its edge and tugs at it gently to make sure Oswald is paying attention. 

“Take that off,” he murmurs, silently wondering if he sounds more desperate than he should. Oswald pushes him away and pulls the shirt off his head, and then he's back, holding Ed close to his dry, warm chest. 

“Better?” he whispers, and Ed nods. 

“Much better, thank you.” 

“Good.” Oswald starts caressing his back; it's a tiny movement of his thumb at first, then it turns into long, lazy strokes. Ed presses his nose into he crook of his neck and breathes in deeply—and it’s right there, the scent he’s almost forgotten in the past two weeks, the familiar, sweet, calming scent. It sends shivers all over Ed's body, heats up his blood, shuts down his brain. He senses that he's getting hard, and with a more or less sane part of his brain he wishes he didn't know why. Oswald chuckles, like Ed's breath is tickling him, or, and that's the more likely option, like he finds Ed's arousal entertaining, and leans down to press a kiss into the damp locks on the top of his head. 

“Good night,” he whispers softly, and Ed’s drifting away into a sleep that’s dark and warm and deep, and smells like bitter whiskey and sweet cologne and the sour sweat on Oswald's skin. 

He wakes up five hours later to his own broken cry, covered in sweat and panting, sitting up in the same moment as he opens his eyes. 

"Oswald," he says without thinking, and he reaches for the night light's switch before he realizes it's already on, filling the room with dim, greyish light. 

He looks around, then. The room is empty and cold, and so is his bed, even the heat radiating from his own body seems to be unable to heat it up properly. The sheets are damp and sticky, mostly from his sweat, but there are some dark red stains on them too, proving that he really did splash wine all over the bed sometime during the night. 

With a throaty sigh, he slides back under the duvet, one hand reaching for the cup he put next to the bed. He takes a sip without bothering to sit back up, and he doesn't even flinch when some more wine gets spilled on the pillow, right next to his head. He'll wash himself in the morning; and there's no one to freak out about the bedsheets anyway. 

Or is there? 

He drops the empty cup and it lands next to him on the mattress, not leaving any more stains this time. Whatever happened a few hours ago—whatever the reason was for the ghost of Oswald to appear in his bed—he can't fully recall it now, but he remembers the feeling, the soft warmth that sucked him in right before he fell asleep. And he remembers the voice—not the words, but the voice, that sweet, melodious voice, talking about the river and the bed and the nightmares. Chuckling at his hard-on. Saying good night. 

Ed rubs his eyes and reaches for his glasses. They're not on the bedside table; he finds them a few minutes and hundreds of panicky thoughts later under a more or less clean pillow, slightly deformed by him falling asleep while still wearing them. He puts them on and glances at the alarm clock. The neon blue digits have changed since the last time he checked them. It's half past seven now, almost the right time to wake up and get ready for another day of endless questions and false statements and nerve-racking fatigue that will be gone the moment he gets back to the mansion and has a chance to go to sleep. 

He gets up and marches to the bathroom without falling over his own filthy shirt. It makes him worryingly proud. He washes his face and teeth without looking in the mirror, he showers, he washes his teeth again to make the bitter taste of his hungover disappear; he takes a painkiller with some cold water right from the tap and knocks his forehead into the soap dish when he tries to straighten up. He gets dressed—he wears a black suit today, one to match the grief he's supposed to be showing about the disappearance of the mayor, and he wishes it stopped feeling like a lie—and when the time comes to comb his hair, he's almost ready to face his reflection. 

Almost. 

It would be just great if he didn't look like shit. But he's far from that—he's got dark purple circles under his eyes, and they look severe enough to make him consider using the tube of concealer he secretly bought a few days ago. And the reason he doesn't even try has nothing to do with his poor skills at applying make-up, even though he's never tried it before—his cheeks look pale, like they're completely lacking blood flow, like he's constantly about throw up; and he's pretty sure the concealer wouldn't be white enough to match his skin. 

He combs his hair out of his face, adds gel, adds more gel, turns away from the mirror as fast as he can. And then it's suddenly time to leave home—maybe not his home, but Oswald's home—and he's sipping at his hot coffee quickly, burning his tongue, rushing down the ancient stairs to get to the office on time, like there's anything he could be doing except trying to make the GCPD work harder on the lost mayor's case. 

The day passes painfully slowly, and with every moment, Ed has to fight harder and harder to stay awake. He's almost hopeful when he gets back to the mansion; he almost believes that tonight might be the night he gets some sleep, undisturbed by ghosts and nightmares and hallucinations. 

Hallucinations. The word comes to his mind while he's brushing his teeth, and his mouth falls open right when he should be spitting foamy toothpaste into the sink, so it just drops off his lips, a thick trail of toothpaste and saliva running down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, looking up to face the mirror, and there he is, Ed can see him again—Oswald is standing right behind him, wearing his best suit, his hands clasped behind his back, leaning slightly forward to get a better view at Ed brushing his teeth. 

"Hello," he says with a wide smile, and Ed is not sure if it reminds him of last night or something farther in the past, but it shocks him somehow; and he turns around, elbow getting bruised on the sink, toothbrush dropped to the ground. 

"What are you doing?" he snaps, and the ghost shrugs. 

"Watching you," he answers, and then he's gone; he leaves Ed staring at the empty wall on the other side of the bathroom. 

He's alone now, he's sure about that. He's not so sure if lonely would be a better word. But he finds it strangely calming that no one is observing his evening routine now; and the soft, relaxing feeling lasts for at least an hour, until he gets to bed, Oswald's bed, again, and flicks off the bedside lamp. The night light stays on—he forgot to turn it off in the morning, what a waste of money and electricity—and the room looks suddenly familiar, just like last night, dim and shadowy and lacking someone. 

Ed turns off the night light. An hour later, he turns it back on so he can find the sedatives he took the evening before. He swallows three of them, one more than anyone normally needs to fall asleep; then he gets up and walks to the kitchen to find another bottle of the cheap wine he's been drinking. It's not one that Oswald used to buy, he'd probably be angry at him for drinking something as disgusting and valueless as this, whatever this is; but it's good enough for Ed. He's not going to take anything from the wine cellar. Nothing there belongs to him. 

By the time he gets back to the bedroom, he's finished the bottle of wine, and he's even started hallucinating—he sees colorful dots in the air, he hears Kristen's voice, and, for some reason, Harvey Bullock's, but there's no sign of Oswald. Or his ghost, if he wants to be precise. So he gets back to the bed, and at some point he must remember how he fell asleep a night earlier, because he can hear himself calling for Oswald, asking him to cuddle him until he can rest again; he can hear himself plead and curse and, only once, sob a few incomprehensible words; and then he's asleep, and awake, and he gets up to read last day's newspaper until his alarm clock allows him to start the day. 

The second time it happens is less convenient; less convenient for Ed, at least. He wakes up the next day like he's waking from a coma, his head feels full and heavy, and for some reason he believes he's slept more than an hour, even though it was only twenty minutes, he checked the clock just before he fell asleep. And when he finally forces himself to crawl out of bed, he finds that he not only looks sick, he practically is—his nose is running, his throat is sore, his skin is damp with hot, feverish sweat. 

"God damn it," he mutters and makes himself walk to the bathroom to splash cool water into his face. Sure, he shouldn't have spent another night in nothing but his underwear, knowing for sure that he wasn't going to stay under the duvet. But it doesn't matter now. He knows the perfect cure—staying in bed, drinking tea strictly without rum, getting some rest—and he also knows he's not going to try any of that. 

He gets dressed instead and leaves the mansion earlier than normally to get a large box of Benadryl. On his way to the office, he takes two pills with a cup of coffee he's bought to go, and only when they've been swallowed and he can imagine them beginning to dissolve in his empty stomach does he take another sip and properly admire the strong, bitter taste that floods his mouth and caresses his tongue. 

Hell, it's been long since he last enjoyed coffee. Enjoyed anything, for that matter. 

And from the moment the drops the paper cup into the trash bin to the moment he goes to the toilet six hours later, everything seems fine—more than that; perfectly, soothingly normal. He has meetings, two of them, one with a business partner, another with Bullock, and even that second one feels alright; it makes him certain of being in charge. Bullock is not any more suspicious of him than normally, he even looks like he believes that Ed is worried about the mayor's situation, or like he's trying very hard not to believe it. It's all perfect. And he knows it's almost time to start having the other kind of meetings as well—he's got some business to finish with the Sirens, and he'll have some with others too, as soon as they find out who's responsible for the Penguin's death. And they will find out pretty soon. 

At a certain point he has to take another Benadryl, though. He can feel his throat get sore again, right in the middle of the meeting with Bullock, and there's an ever so slight urge to cough that could ruin his confident attitude; so he excuses himself to the restroom, he urinates, he takes two more pills, he gets frustrated when he begins to cough, he takes another, and when he finally looks into the mirror, Oswald's ghost is standing behind him again, with a cheeky smile on his lips and a strange light flickering in his eyes. 

Ed turns on his heels again, too fast to remember he might scare the illusion away again. 

"What?" he asks, like it's a normal thing to be followed by a dead friend. 

"Don't act like you didn't miss me," Oswald says. He's suddenly right next to Ed, leaning with his hips against a sink, hands crossed in front of his chest. "We both know you tried to make me come last night." 

Ed blinks at him. He can feel his cheeks getting hot and flushed, and he can imagine what he must look like. Longing. Desperate. Messed up, again, despite the past few hours of pure calmness. 

"Oh, sorry!" Oswald chuckles, clearly not regretting anything. "Wrong words. I mean, you tried to make me come back to you. Or that's what I know about." 

"Yes, that's—" Ed gives up and reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes. When he's finished, Oswald is still there, looking him up and down with a new, strange curiosity. "That's right," he finally manages, feeling almost surprised when he hears himself find his voice. "It was disappointing when you stayed away." 

"Well, I'm here now." Oswald steps to him, closing the tiny space left between them, pressing his chest against Ed's; and when he speaks, his voice is not exactly enthusiastic, but not rejecting, either. "What do you want?" 

Ed decides he could use some time to think. Also, some air to breathe, because the room feels tight and hot and very much not full of oxygen. 

"Nothing right now," he eventually says. Oswald furrows his eyebrows. 

"So why am I here?" he asks. "If it's only to make me look at you full of power and confidence, then congratulations, you've reached your goal. You're pretty attractive like this." 

"I—uh, thank you." Ed scratches the back of his neck. His suit feels way too tight now too; his tie is choking him, and so are his pants. For a moment, he wonders if it makes him an even worse person that he can get hard by imagining his dead friend complimenting him. Alright, complimenting him while pressing himself against his chest. 

"Anytime," Oswald answers with a cheerful smile, and Ed suddenly remembers what he wanted to say. 

"I'd like it if you could visit me tonight," he manages, trying to keep his voice as flat and emotionless as he can. Almost formal. And Oswald, obviously, ruins it all, because he starts grinning wider than ever, and he catches Ed's hand before answering. 

"I'd like that too," he says and he runs a thumb over the back of the hand he's holding. And then he's gone again, leaving Ed to cover his arousal and escape the meeting as fast as he can. Ensuring that Bullock has a pretty good laugh. 

In the evening, he doesn't come as promised. Ed waits for him patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, then under the duvets, then under another pair of duvets because there's a point at which he decides the ghost deserves something prettier than those stinky, stained bedsheets. He takes another three of the newly brought Benadryl when he realizes he probably needs some kind of drug to induce his hallucinations. 

It helps him fall into a deep, dreamless and nightmare-less sleep. It doesn't help him see Oswald. 

There's a third time when it happens, but that's later, much later. By then, he's almost used to taking the right medication whenever he feels like meeting him—it's five to six Benadryl when he wants him to be witty and smart and independent, able to give advice and impossible to be controlled, no matter how hard Ed tries to. He laughs at him when he notices that Ed's concentrating too hard; he explains that hallucinations and fantasies are two different things, and it's not the first one that can be influenced by the one experiencing it. And then there's the other Oswald, the gentle one; the one that lulls him to sleep if he asks him to and has light-hearted conversations with him over a cup of tea and sickeningly sweet cookies; the one that requires exactly three and a half sedatives and half a bottle of wine. Painkillers work too, sometimes; they bring an Oswald that's sweet but silent, better to look at than to talk to, because his answers are too simple, as if Ed's weary mind couldn't make him as intelligent as he was. 

So that's it for the next few weeks; short and simple conversations, deep and intellectual debates, actual arguments that make Ed feel like Oswald still cares for him, and it warms up his guts and sets his blood on fire; but there's nothing that turns him on again, and he knows this is how it's supposed to work, he knows this is how one should react to a new, developing relationship with the best friend they killed a few weeks earlier. Without unnecessary erections. Without any erections, if possible. 

And then there's a time when he changes his mind. It's right after his third unsuccessful attempt at making Oswald appear—yes, it happens, sometimes none of his methods work properly and he's left alone in the middle of a gentle hug or a heated conversation, but today is different, because today he tried to find a new teacher, and he really wanted to tell Oswald that the curator didn't stand up to his expectations, and the bloody ghost just wasn't willing to appear. None of his versions were. 

So he tries the one thing he hasn't tried so far. It's not a big deal, or, at least, it wasn't a big deal to obtain the small pink capsules—they look kind of disgusting, actually. But using them, now that's a whole different thing. He's never tried any sort of drugs so far, except the legal ones, of course; but otherwise he's kept himself clean. Even in his teenage years, even that one time he was offered some weed; so what he knows comes mostly from his biochemistry books and he's always been just fine with that. 

Right now, he wishes he was more familiar with the concept. 

The thing he's twisting nervously between his fingers is supposed to contain a small amount of LSD, that's all he knows about it. He has no idea if it's clean, or what clean means in this case, or if it even has a meaning, or if he's supposed to simply swallow it; so he opens the capsule carefully, pours its contents into a teacup that's halfway filled with wine, stirs with a finger, and then drinks and swallows and waits, until all he remembers is seeing Oswald, but like three of him, along with two Kristens and quite a few versions of himself, dressed in colorful, purple and green outfits, some of them with red hair, some of them with a golden cane, some of them drinking whiskey with an accordingly weird, disheveled and chubby Oswald; and then he's throwing up, and then he's trying to tidy up after himself, and then he's sleeping, oversleeping, missing a workday; and somewhat later he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he could have tried it without the wine. 

He calls in sick, and his secretary isn't the least surprised. No one is. They tell him he's been looking like hell ever since the mayor disappeared, they tell him what a good and caring friend he is—they actually do, like everyone is suddenly forgetting who he is and what he might have done—and he throws up again. The call ends soon after. 

When the evening comes, he's still feeling sick, and is only beginning to consider eating something to soothe his empty stomach. It takes him almost an hour to prepare a cup of chicken soup, and it was cooked before, he only has to reheat it. But he does feel better when he finally starts eating; the soup is warm and delicious, and it tastes like life is being poured back right into his bones. 

He still hasn't seen Oswald, though. And at this point, it's slowly becoming a challenge, the weirdest kind of hide-and-seek ever—he has to see him right now, he needs to know he's still capable of summoning the ghost whenever he wants to. He's not safe without that knowledge. 

So he marches back to the bedroom, taking two bottles of wine and a clean teacup; he grabs the sedatives and a fresh box of Benadryl from a drawer on the nightstand; he puts on a vinyl record—it's an album by Amy Winehouse, his second secret pleasure that comes right after talking to the ghost of Oswald—he turns the lights off and the night light on; and then, only then, he stops to think. 

He knows what he doesn't need right now—the sweet, caring Oswald, the one willing to cuddle him like they've been lovers for ages. He couldn't bear the frustration the presence of that Oswald normally brings. No, he's feeling furious now, he wants to scream, he wants to ask why he couldn't make the hallucinations start for a whole day, and he wants to hear the answer. A proper explanation. An accordingly enraged one, if possible. 

Ed reaches for the Benadryl. 

He takes eight, then nine, because no one is going to stop him from seeing Oswald, not now when he needs him the most. He's still feeling just as sick as a few hours ago, but he takes the pills and swallows quickly, without taking a break to think about the possible consequences. The worst thing that can happen is him throwing up again, without meeting Oswald for a second. 

He's fine with his own digestive tract. He's not fine with Oswald avoiding him. 

After the ninth pill, he gives up and lets himself fall on the mattress. He knows he'll have to wait, but, if everything goes fine, not for too long. And he's right—the moment the third song starts, filling the room with deep, dark, sensual tunes, Oswald appears right in front of him. He's kneeling next to the bed, on the floor, resting his forearms on Ed's pillow and his chin on his forearms. 

"Good evening," he smiles softly. Ed has to clear his throat before he speaks, and his voice is still raw and weak when he does. 

"Hello," he answers, lifting his head only to let it drop back onto the pillow. Oswald chuckles at him. 

"Missed me?" he asks, and Ed suddenly remembers why they're here. Not to find comfort in each other, not this time—they're here to ask questions and find answers; he can ever feel his lips tremble when he remembers the pointless, devastating fight to summon Oswald. 

"Where the hell have you been?" he spits, and Oswald scowls. 

"Is this how you greet you friends now?" 

"I don't have too many friends," Ed begins, and he's just about to repeat his question when Oswald interrupts him. 

"Maybe you would if you stopped shooting them to death." 

"Don't act like I had a choice." His voice sounds hoarse again, and he doesn't try to make it any softer this time. "Revenge is a thing, remember?" 

"Sure. Guilt is another." Oswald rises to his feet, his shadow covering Ed's torso entirely. "Listening to depressive Amy Winehouse songs while drinking _and_ taking drugs to see your dead best friend is, well, another." 

Ed lifts his upper body as much as he can, keeping himself up on one unsteady elbow. 

"Damn you," he hisses. "What's your reason for staying away when I needed you?" 

Oswald puts both of his hands on his hips, and suddenly he looks surprisingly pretty, his cheeks are flushed with anger and his figure seems fragile and slender among the shadows of the room. "I don't know, being dead?" 

"You know what, Oswald?" Ed feels a sudden urge to tear his glasses off his face, as if he was giving his consciousness over to his other self again, as if he wasn't one with his other self now. "Damn you," he repeats as a new wave of frustration washes over his body, and he reaches out to grab Oswald's wrist and pull him over himself. 

Oswald lands on him with a quiet gasp and a wide grin; it only grows wider when Ed reaches up to caress his face, with one finger, just experimentally. His skin feels soft and warm, and it heats up under the touch. 

"What?" Oswald asks, gently rolling his hips to meet Ed's hardening cock with his. Ed laughs breathlessly. 

"You keep surprising me," he murmurs. 

"That's hard to believe, given that you pulled me into the bed just a moment ago." 

Ed lets his hand slide behind Oswald's neck, into his hair, and tugs at the soft locks forcefully enough to make Oswald close his eyes and lean back, opening up his throat for Ed to kiss, letting out a weak moan when he does. 

"God," he pants, and Ed lets him look back down, keeping his hand in his hair, just in case. 

"I very much doubt he has anything to do with us," he grins, and then Oswald is saying something about him shutting the fuck up, and then Oswald is leaning down to kiss him, and then Ed stops breathing for the next thirty minutes. 

It's the first time they kiss, and he has to admit that it's nothing like he imagined it. (The part he has to admit: he's imagined it before.) And it's nothing like the kisses he's given and got; it's not any better, but not any worse, either, it's just different, unique, with Oswald's ragged breath and dry lips and surprising confidence, like he knows what he's doing, like he wants to keep doing it. 

Ed forces his mind to shut off for a second. 

He runs his hands down Oswald's back, then back up, under his wet shirt now; it's just a thought to rip the clothes off their bodies, it's just a quick movement to roll Oswald over and climb on top of him, it takes only a glance at his reddened lips and half-closed eyelids to make Ed groan in want and frustration. Oswald reaches behind his neck, pulling him into another kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy, and their lips part with an obscene pop that makes Oswald chuckle and Ed shiver. 

At some point, his fingers are between Oswald's lips, and Oswald is sucking on them while looking up into his eyes, caressing them with his tongue, coating them with saliva; at another point, his fingers are deeper down, inside Oswald, opening him up, making him gasp again and again; and then he probably replaces them with his cock, because Oswald is closing his eyes now, his nails are scratching painful scars into Ed's shoulder and his lips are pressing wet kisses into Ed's neck; and Ed makes sure it's Oswald who comes first, a lot earlier than he does, and he waits until Oswald says he's alright before he start thrusting into him again, and he keeps caressing his cheeks, and the way Oswald looks at him is worth anything, because there's something in his eyes now, something Ed has seen before and forgotten about; and Ed can't help but feel surprised at how easy it feels to stay gentle and caring instead of focusing on his own pleasure. 

He doesn't remember coming. What he remembers is collapsing on top of Oswald, letting his come cover both of their stomachs, pressing a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. 

"I missed you," he murmurs, trying to find a place for his head in the crook of Oswald's shoulder. 

Oswald strokes his back gently, soft fingertips soothing the red lines his nails have left. "I know." 

"Then why didn't you come earlier?" 

"Because I love you." 

Ed lifts his head and stares at him in pure shock. Oswald doesn't sound as serene now as he did before, and what he's just said—it feels good, it really does, and, even though it has nothing to do with his question, Ed wishes he could say it back; but he can't, not now, not when Oswald's voice sounds just like the last time he actually heard it. 

"What?" Ed asks, hands and lips and voice trembling. 

"I did it because I love you," Oswald repeats, and his face is suddenly changing, transforming into another kind of mess from a pretty, panting one; into one still panting, one still short of breath, but because of a way too tight tie this time, tied up, lying on the hood of an old car; and when Ed kneels up, his entire body is shaking and he feels disgusted enough of himself to want to throw up again. 

"Stop it," he whispers, reaching out to hold Oswald's hand. 

"I'd love to," Oswald says. And then he does stop it, but only by disappearing, fading into the shadows and the soft music, letting his wrist slip out of Ed's grip. The tenth Benadryl doesn't bring him back that night. 

In a few more weeks, Ed loses count of the times his hallucinated Oswald has turned him on. He also loses count of the times he's cursed himself for not remembering his chemistry studies and designing his own, personalized pills earlier—pills that create an Oswald breathtakingly similar to the one Ed shot, one that's sassy and emotional and angry and caring, one that doesn't differ from that original Oswald in one single thing. 

Well, he does in two things, maybe. The real Oswald would never have tried to seduce him by singing Amy Winehouse songs, and he would never have succeeded—this Oswald is unsettlingly tempting whenever he does it, despite the absurdity of the situation. And the real Oswald would never have let Ed throw those pills into the river, after his body, along with his memory. 

Or that's what Ed wants to believe. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you feel like it, they're always deeply appreciated!
> 
> more Nygmobblepot trash [over here](http://stuckinthosefandoms.tumblr.com)


End file.
